Robyn jogged miserably on her treadmill. On the TV was another presumably inspirational movie, this one about a female boxer who overcomes a traumatic upbringing to become a fierce welterweight contender. Then, in the climactic bout, she hits her head on a stool, becomes a quadriplegic, has a leg amputated and dies.

The human spirit triumphs again.

It had been a week since Robyn tried to blink a message to her fiancé. She understood that it was a long shot, an act of desperation. Who knows Morse code in the Internet Age? Brian sure didn't nor, for that matter, did Robyn. But she held out the hope that her arrhythmic fluttering of lashes and glazed stare would alarm her future husband and he would... what? Call 911? Right, because the police are so famously responsive to complaints of blinking irregularities.

Her bracelet chimed. DINNER!

On cue, Dave entered with a sixteen ounce glass of what looked like congealed gravy. "Mmmmm," he said, rubbing his stomach with his free hand. Robyn's eyes turned into angry slits as she glared at him.

He offered the glass to her and she took it, gulping it down as fast as she could. It was a new flavor combination that was hard to identity. Artichoke, Greek yogurt and... cherry cough syrup, maybe?

"Why is it necessary," Robyn asked when the waves of nausea subsided, "for everything to taste like shit?"

"We're training you to think differently about food," Dave explained. "The purpose of food is to build a healthy body. Taste confuses the issue, makes you eat to excess and crave things that are bad for you."

"You do realize you sound like a robot, right?"

Dave, it seemed, was developing an appreciation for Robyn's sassiness, because he had to work harder than usual to suppress a smile. Then, when he was confident he had his face under control, he pulled out his tablet and pushed a button, activating the screen.

"So what colors were you thinking for the table cloths?" he asked.

Robyn stared at him, uncomprehending. "What are you talking about?"

"The table cloths," he repeated, but the words seemed to hold no meaning for her. "For your wedding?" He slowly and loudly enunciated each word as if talking to a foreigner. "That's what all this is about, right?" And then it came rushing back to her. She still had a wedding to plan.

"Right!" she said. "Jesus."

"Brian emailed and-"

"You're reading my emails?" As soon as she said it, she felt stupid for being surprised. Of course they were reading her emails.

Unruffled, Dave started again. "Brian emailed and he's not sure if you want ivory, baby powder or seashell."

Robyn became thoughtful. She closed her eyes, visualizing how each shade of white would work with the centerpiece she had selected.

"What does Brian prefer?"

Dave looked down at the tablet. "He has no preference."

Robyn made a disapproving phlegmy noise. "Typical. So what do you think?"

"I think that only a crazy person would care about this."

Robyn nodded thoughtfully. "Ask him to send swatches."

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The next morning, after Robyn finished jogging to yet another purportedly inspirational film - this one about a feisty criminal who is given electroshock treatments, a lobotomy and finally smothered to death with a pillow by a large Native American man - Dave came in with her hideous breakfast drink and a surprise.

"How'd you like to get out of this room for a while?" he asked enticingly.

Robyn sensed that she was being set up. "What's going on?"

"You've been doing so well with cardio, we thought you deserved a reward."

"Which is...?"

"Strength training!" There was no trace of Dave's usual dry sarcasm. He really thought he was bringing her welcome news. Which pretty much sums up the difference between personal trainers and the rest of humanity.

Completely misinterpreting Robyn's open-mouthed astonishment as excitement, he continued, "I had to pull some strings. But I think you're ready."

--------------

Dave's hand was on her lower back, gently guiding her down a concrete path that cut through the perfectly manicured viridian grass. Robyn had never been much of an outdoors person so she was unprepared for how luxurious it would feel to have sunlight on her face, to see wispy cirrus clouds painted on the sapphire sky. The high walls and guard tower were still there, and chains forced her to take small, hobbling steps, but still, compared to the eight days she had spent in her room, it felt like sweet liberation.

Robyn's serenity soon shattered when Dave led her through the doors of the gym and she was greeted by Debbie's bubbly voice. "Hi, stranger!" The words bored into her head like a dentist's drill.

Robyn turned to Dave with an accusatory stare. Dave shrugged, almost apologetically. "You're her client, not mine."

"Come on!" Debbie enthused. "It'll be fun!"

It was not fun.

Debbie locked Robyn in a huge and ghastly device, a custom-designed weight machine constructed from tungsten carbide, that could be used to work every muscle group in the body with an almost unlimited number of resistance exercises.

"All right," Debbie said perkily, adjusting the settings on the machine, as well as the chains that kept Robyn from escaping, "we're going to start with squats. Remember, keep your back straight and don't bend your knees past ninety degrees."

Unhappily, Robyn complied. Bearing the weighted bar across her shoulders, she lowered herself and then, grunting with effort, straightened up. Debbie cheered her on with platitudinous words of encouragement.

"How long am I supposed to do these?" Robyn demanded.

"Until I tell you to stop," Debbie replied chirpily.

"What if I want to stop now?"

Debbie produced a cattle prod-like device. She pressed a button and crackling blue electricity arced menacingly between two prongs.

Robyn cringed and continued with her squats as Debbie informed her that she was doing great, that she had this, that she should feel the burn.

Robyn did feel the burn and it was making her legs shake uncontrollably.

"Good!" Debbie applauded. "Three more!"

Robyn struggled as Debbie counted down. "Three... keep going! Two... you're almost there!" But Robyn's legs had a different idea. This time, when she lowered herself, they gave out on her. "One more, Robyn!"

Now Robyn and Debbie found themselves, once again, having the same old argument.

"I can't," Robyn said, because she knew she couldn't.

"You can!" Debbie countered, because she knew she could. "Come on, Robyn! Dig deep!"

"I can't!"

"You can!"

Then it all went off the rails.

"I can't, you fucking Asian whore!"

Whoa.

Robyn was horrified to hear those words come out of her own mouth. Where had they come from? And somehow, with that one illiberal outburst, Robyn ceded the moral high ground. Now she was the bad guy and Debbie the innocent victim of her bigotry.

Robyn began to stammer an incoherent apology. Something about Jackie Chan and sushi.

For her part, Debbie wasn't offended. She understood that Robyn wasn't really mad at her, she was mad at herself. This sudden Tourrettesian fit was actually just a cry for help. And Debbie was ready to help her.

So she held down the button on her cattle prod and jabbed Robyn in the ribs. All at once it felt like every cell in Robyn's body was on fire. She seized up, her back arching, her mouth frozen in a grotesque rictus. It was excruciating.

But at least Debbie was the bad guy again.

Debbie released the button, freeing Robyn from spasm's grip. The pain subsided as the smell of singed lycra mingled with the scent of her sweat.

"One more!" Debbie cheered, belying the fact that she had sent fifty thousand volts through Robyn's body just moments ago. "I believe in you!"

Robyn was beyond exhausted, but she also didn't want to be cattle prodded again. So she reached into reserves that she didn't know she had. Grunting, and then screaming, she managed to straighten up.

"Yay!" Debbie shouted joyfully, clapping her hands together with schoolgirl exuberance.

"I'm going to throw up," Robyn said, doubling over.

Debbie patted Robyn on the back reassuringly. "That's perfectly normal." She grabbed a small plastic waste basket and placed it in front of Robyn.

But Robyn didn't throw up. It was reminiscent of her failed flirtation with bulimia in her late teens. Dramatic retching noises with nothing to show for it.

"False alarm!" Debbie said brightly when it was clear that the danger had passed. She returned the waste basket to the corner. "OK!" she enthused, "Ready to continue?"

Continue?

For the first time, Robyn really understood the mercilessness of this place. She had assumed that after all she had just suffered, she would be finished for the day. But no. Breaking her, it seemed, wasn't enough. They were intent on grinding her into dust.

As Debbie adjusted the machine for the next unendurable exercise, Robyn couldn't help but think: I should have listened to Julia.

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